


Writer's Block

by SneakyHufflepuff



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, F/M, Team, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyHufflepuff/pseuds/SneakyHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Valentine's Day mini-prompthathon at be_compromised. For: <i>'Hallmark' AU: everyone works in a card company.</i> Thank you muchly to shenshen77 who read over this at the speed of lightning.</p><p>S.H.I.E.L.D. cards is looking to take the market from Hallmark, but a case of writer's block is spreading through the company. Kate makes fun of everyone, Hill is the boss from hell and no one really knows how Tony Stark got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writer's Block

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inkvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkvoices/gifts).



Clint threw yet another balled up piece of paper into the trashcan. It was three days before Christmas, which meant the writers at the card company were all assigned to writing pithy Valentine’s Day phrases. Unfortunately all of them, except Kate, had gone through a break-up recently and were coming up blank.

“I hope this card will make you want to fuck me, because I’m too much of a loser to do something original on Valentine’s Day,” Tony read his latest idea from his mobile phone, as he leant against Clint’s desk. No one had ever actually seen Tony do work from his own cubicle.

“That’ll be a best seller,” Kate commented wryly from the cubicle behind Clint. He could hear her typing away merrily.

“Not everyone has a private jet, Tony. They can’t all fly their dates to Paris. Sometimes a card _is_ something different and original.” Bruce looked up from his own computer screen from the cubicle opposite Clint’s. Clint could see Bruce’s cursor blinking on a blank page.

“Everyone should have a jet. I mean, why would you want to date anyone who wouldn’t?” Tony grumbled. Pepper had left him for a pool-boy. He hadn’t been the same since.

Clint scribbled down something about red lips, then tore the paper in half in frustration. One crumpled up piece of paper went perfectly in the center of Kate’s bin, the other in Bruce’s.

“Clint, if you’re going to stay in the twentieth century and use paper, at least be environmentally friendly about it,” Kate said. “The recycling is over there.” She pointed to a small bin next to Steve’s desk. 

“I hate everything.” Clint looked morosely at his hands. “Why can’t I go back to writing birthday cards? I’m good at birthday cards.”

“Well you have had so many birthdays, it figures,” Kate said. Clint swivelled in his chair, caught her gaze and turned on the full force of his sad eyes. “Okay okay, I’m sorry. Maybe take a break?”

Clint rubbed his temples. “It’s no use. I’m calling it. I have writer’s block.”

“You can’t have writer’s block.” Steve, technically Clint’s boss, but more often his friend, opined from his desk. “Hill thinks we can wrest the New England market from Hallmark if we’re witty this year.” Clint stopped himself from mentioning how Steve’s eyes lit up whenever he mentioned Maria Hill, Vice President of S.H.I.E.L.D. “We need all of you. You’re the best we’ve got.”

“God help us all,” Kate stated.

***

“Kate, your pitches were excellent. You may leave.” Kate threw Clint a look of pity, then walked out of their boss's office.

Clint and Bruce shuffled their feet. Tony looked up from his mobile phone. Steve practically stood to attention, his body oriented towards Hill. 

“The rest of you, however...” Hill shook her head, disappointed. “Not good enough. You all have a week to come up with something better. Or you’re fired.” Clint could see from the circles under her eyes and the wrinkle in her usually immaculate suit that she was under pressure from Fury. It didn’t bode well for his future employment prospects.

Tony opened his mouth to protest the rough treatment, but Hill kept going. “Stark, I know we don’t actually pay you, but we can still lock you out of the building.” Tony shut his mouth. “Steve, most of yours were good, but you need to stop writing about blue eyes.” Steve blushed. “We’re trying to reach a wide-ranging audience here.” She turned to Clint. “Clint, the divorce was two years ago. Get over it.” Clint flinched. Then it was Bruce's turn. “Bruce, love shouldn’t come across as angry. I know all of you can do better. Watch Romeo and Juliet or something to get in the mood.”

The men all stood staring at her, mouths open.

“Now get out of my office. I have to deal with the motivational poster people next, and they’re all a bunch of depressed losers.”

Clint walked out of Hill’s office, still shell-shocked.

“Clint, I’m sorry. That was harsh, even for her. Are you okay?” Steve asked, a hand on Clint’s shoulder.

Clint shrugged him off. “I’m fine.”

“Maybe you should write cards for evil bosses next,” Tony suggested to Steve, a leer on his face. 

Steve ignored Tony and put on his best team leader voice. “Back to work everyone.”

***

“Love is stupid. Let’s be stupid together?” Clint tried the words on his tongue, then hit his head against the desk. It hurt. “I’m heading out,” he called to Steve. 

Steve grunted in acknowledgement, focused intently on his screen. Clint grabbed his coat and headed to the subway. The walk from the office was only a couple of blocks, but he saw at least four happy couples on the way. He hoped they would spark some inspiration, but all they sparked was resentment. He and Bobbi had split up just before Christmas two years ago, in an ugly mess that was more his fault than hers. It was just his luck that the time of year he had to write mini love letters was when every Christmas carol was reminding him of his most painful memories. 

In the subway he avoided eye contact with the people around him, just like everyone else. Unfortunately, with it being Christmas season, most of the passengers had bags of presents with them and it made the subway car even more crowded than usual. As it was, he only had half a second’s warning before a hundred and ten pounds of redhead crashed into him, spilling lukewarm tea all over his suit jacket and shirt. Great. The perfect ending to a perfect day.

“I’m so sorry,” the stranger blurted, her beautiful green eyes wide with dismay. “Someone jostled me, and the train turned at just the wrong time...”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Clint said glumly. On the plus side, the spill had the passengers edging away from him and the woman, giving Clint room to breathe.

The red-headed stranger examined him critically. “You’re not in the Christmas spirit.”

“Well, I just had tea poured on me. What are you, British?” Clint demanded, amazed he was getting into a conversation with a stranger in New York City.

“Russian, actually. I would drink coffee, but you Americans apparently have a different definition for the world. One that involves motor oil.” She tilted her chin up in challenge. 

“Well, Miss Russia, I’ve had an awful day and now a woman I’ve never met is berating me for my lack of Christmas spirit,” Clint said, amusement lacing his tone.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Well, then tell me about it. Vent to me, and then we’ll be even.”

“You know, most people would offer to dry clean the shirt,” Clint grumbled.

“You look like you need a friendly ear more than a dry-cleaner,” the woman replied archly. “But a dry-cleaner certainly wouldn’t hurt.” Her eyes ran over the pre-existing stains on his suit.

“Well, I’m a writer,” Clint began. He usually wouldn’t have this conversation in a public place, but most of the people around him, from the elderly grandmother to the eight year old kid, had headphones in their ears.

“What type?” the stranger probed.

“I’m getting there, jeez.” The stranger rolled her eyes, clearly over whatever guilt she felt for spilling her drink on him. “I write cards for a living, but I’ve come down with writer’s block.”

“What are you writing for?” Either she was genuinely interested or very good at pretending.

“Valentine’s Day.”

“You can’t write about love? What kind of writer are you?” The woman demanded incredulously.

“It’s my story. Quit interrupting,” Clint could feel himself relax as he gained perspective about the situation. The world wasn’t going to end if he couldn’t write a card. “And as I was saying, I have writer’s block. My boss threatened to fire me, and suggested I watch Romeo and Juliet for inspiration.” He spat the name of the play like a curse.   

The stranger snorted in disbelief. “You mean the story of what happens when people act from pure emotion? If Romeo and Juliet hadn’t died, they would have been unhappy in two years and having affairs in five. Your boss isn’t much of a Shakespeare scholar.”

“I thought I was the only one who had that reaction to that play.” Clint replied, relieved.

“She should have tried Much Ado,” The woman said. “Way more romantic."

“ _Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me_ ,” Clint quoted. “I can see that selling well,” he said sarcastically.

“Or _I do love nothing in the world so well as you -- is not that strange?_ ,” she quoted in response. “That would work for the hipster market.” 

Clint could feel himself warming to the idea. “And using Shakespeare is free. What about _Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, but I do love thee! And when I love thee not, chaos is come again._ ” He knew his English degree would eventually come in handy.

“Othello?” The stranger wrinkled her nose. “Not my cup of tea.”

“No, your cup of tea is all over my shirt,” Clint quipped.

The stranger acknowledged the hit with a tilt of her head. “My stop is next,” she informed him, almost wistfully.

Clint frowned in disappointment. He was enjoying the conversation. “It was.” He paused, looking for the right word. “Helpful, talking to you. Thank you. I’m Clint.” He offered her his hand by way of introduction. The train ground to a halt.

“Natasha,” she replied with a blinding smile, and pressed a piece of paper in his proffered hand with a wink. She slipped around the headphone wearing grandmother to alight from the train in a series of quick movements, disappearing into the sea of commuter in a heartbeat.

Clint looked down at the paper in his hands. A phone number was scrawled in neat writing on the yellow paper. He felt his writers block dissipate as if it had never existed. “ _When you depart from me sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave_ ,” he whispered to himself. Even if Hill didn’t go for the Shakespeare idea, he was sure he could rework the sentiments into something modern.


End file.
